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Pete just didn’t get it, is the thing. He never had, and he reached the conclusion that he wasn't going to. Only, he didn’t bloody think they’d fire him. Not even game to look him in the face and do it, either. Went through their new posh manager, Mr Epstein.
And he wasn’t an absolute mug. He knew the others weren’t so fond of him as they were of each other, but he didn’t think… Well, he’d always thought there was some loyalty, some camaraderie. They sure would come out teeth bared and tongue barbed for each other, and he’d assumed that he was a part of that. Maybe not a part of the core but by extension, at least. He thought he was something to them. A Beatle, if not one of John-Paul-George.
‘You’re brooding, Pete,’ Rory said, chin resting on banister that curled up, up towards the bedrooms. ‘It’s not good for you.’
Pete flicked his lighter open and closed, though he’d not smoke inside the house proper. His mother would have him. With a final huff, he stood from the plush lounge and out to the back garden, ignoring his brother’s wince.
So what if he hadn’t combed his hair forward like they did. So what if he didn’t hang off their little gang outside of band practice, didn’t wanna share girls with them, didn’t wanna wank with them. That wasn’t a crime. Pete was his own man and he was proud of that.
But that wasn’t good enough for them. They didn’t want their own man. They wanted some twat Ted from the Dingle who would match their haircuts and join their wanking circles. If he’d known that he might have done one or the other.
Well, no he wouldn’t have.
And they’d never asked him to, actually. It was all weird, anyway. Paul and John sagging off gigs, running away to Paris for weeks and coming back looking like twins. And then little baby Georgie following along behind, doing his hair the same once he’d forgiven them for screwing around with what was a real chance at a career. He hadn’t known it was some imperative ritual that they all had to follow with. Some unspoken band scripture he’d missed. The need for them to all be in one skin. In one body. None of the other Beatles were their own Beatle. Stu had been the closest, and only because he’d fallen in love. Or maybe really because Paul and he could never have shared a skin without killing each other, if Pete was any good judge. And besides, they’d never actually asked. Never actually said By the way, it’s kind of important that we all match, Pete, y’see? That we play, comb our hair and yank our chains in synchronicitude.
Besides, he’d been as pissed off as George had, when John and Paul deigned to return to Liverpool and gig with them like nothing happened. But did Pete kick up a fuss? No, he took it for what it was, whatever that was, and got on with his day. Allowed the hurricane that was those three to shake the trees around him. Wasn’t that enough for them?
Blood pounded in his ears, and at once he was fuming again. He’d meant to stop in the garden to smoke. Clear his mind, like. But then he spotted some Casbah girls sitting below his bedroom window, their eager pale faces calling for him all hours. Pete, Pete, we’ll never accept this new guy, Pete. We saw him an’ he’s a right nowt! ‘Cept it didn’t much matter if they did or didn’t, he still wasn’t in the band anymore. And his mother chatted with the pair of them right there in the garden, the Best charm at work, hand over her swollen belly. Seeing her pregnant like this was like being a kid again, prodding curiously at the bubble that would one day be Rory. Her hair fell in long dark rivers down her back just as it had when she pulled him along to look at this beautiful house so different from the house they lived in then, or the one before that, so different again from his hazy memories of India. The swaying of the boat beneath his unsure feet steadied by her knowing hand as she led him to his berth, the pride when he copied the sailors’ swearing to make her laugh and laugh, again and again. Always with that knowing smile. Of course you can. Yes Pete, take up drums, go on stage, join those nutters in that band, go to Hamburg, of course my dear. He couldn’t stand to hear what she was saying now. Kept walking, kept flicking his lighter open and closed.
He should have known, really, on that last night a week ago. With John being furtive and sheepish in a way he never was, and Paul being unnaturally gracious. Oh Pete, why don’t you come up front and give ‘em a proper Beatle bow? And I think that was a nice little set, y’know.
Twat.
Pete ended up at the pub. Habit, more than thought. It was already hazy with smoke and noisy inside, though it can’t have been knockoff time for the working lads yet. He ordered himself a pint, sat in the corner and finally lit his cigarette. His lungs expanded with smoke, and he breathed it out slowly, tempering the anger.
It was Paul that decided it, if he was any judge. Always conniving, pulling strings. John, for all his posturing and sarcasm, all the amateur dramatics about leadership, wasn’t the sort to turn on a mate like that. They wore one skin, though, so if Paul thought something, it became John’s idea. And George would only go along. Bugger you if you thought there was a bit of loyalty in one or the other.
Just like his father, really. Jim McCartney was a great old twat, too. Assured of his own greatness despite never doing much except working at the factory and sitting in the house his wife got for them. Oh yes, Pete knew a thing or two about where Paul got his ego from. Fancy Jim McCartney lecturing him on how unfair it was that he was more popular than perfect little Paulie. As if he could help that, as if it wasn’t why half the girls filled up the Cavern on Saturday lunches, and the Jac, and anyway wasn’t Pete’s mum always helping perfect little Paulie get their bookings? Letting him play at band manager. Never mind that Pete was the one doing the actual work of it, the one promoters and even Mr Epstein spoke to for details, on account of him being Mona Best’s boy. Paul got to feel in control, though, so bully for him.
Well, see if Paul McCartney ever got to play at the Casbah again. Pete’d tell his mum and she’d… well, the Casbah was closed, sure. But that was only for now, right? She could well decide to re-open it, after the baby. She’d never book them again.
He winced at the thought. Only she would. Mona Best wasn’t gonna turn her nose up at a group she helped build like that. Besides that they were still playing well and pulling crowds. Too professional for kicking up a stink, and too kind, really. Always with another chance.
And what about his mother? Mona Best was the mother of all the beat bands in Liverpool, really, certainly the most supportive parent of their sorry lot – only George’s parents could compete, but they didn’t end up at George’s house jamming out, did they? No, it was only in the cellar at Hayman’s Green that they had the real space to breathe and practice and get rowdy without being told to shut it, or shove it, or give it a bloody rest. And they loved to get rowdy. John especially, so was a little loyalty really such an unrealistic expectation?
And besides wasn’t it Pete who wrote Mona and Rory and told them to set up a show for the Beatles after Hamburg? Who picked up their sorry asses and gave them something to do when they were kicked down by deportations and in danger of defeat settling in? Who offered his own family home, his own mother’s care? The lads loved having a proper adult around who believed in them. Paul especially. He would always sweet talk Mona, stand to attention when she came in and tidy up his consonants in a way he didn’t for the lads. He’d blink those big doe eyes and flutter those long, Bambi lashes and help her bring in drinks during practice whenever she felt generous enough to make them. Which she often was.
‘I like that he’s sweet on me,’ she said, laughing when Pete mentioned it. ‘Means he’ll be on best behaviour at my club!’
Sweet on her was the problem, though. Pete had seen Paul having his leg hair combed by motherly types before, the little cretin. Got off on that, probably. He wasn’t sure Paul would have any compunctions on trying to pull a mate’s mum. Though they were hardly mates, apparently. But Pete was too embarrassed to tell her, and she didn’t let anything short of it bother her. She was practical like that, and she liked her boys to be too.
Only, Pete had been practical. He’d jumped through the hoops obediently enough – auditioning for the gig, though he knew there was never really anyone else lined up anyway. He’d never let himself get drawn into the arguments; the petty jealousies, the leadership squabbles that the others had in Hamburg. He’d never fawned over John, liked him just fine and was happy to share a pint, but he wasn’t gonna go embarrassing himself for a scrap of approval like the others did. He’d once watched Paul jump, hands outstretched and pull himself up on a fucking ceiling beam in the middle of “What’d I Say”, and instead of looking down at the girls below screaming in terror and excitement, instead of keeping his eye on his hands’ precarious grip on that awkward exposed beam, he’d tossed his head over his shoulder to see if John was looking. Of course he was – who wasn’t watching the spider monkey? Almost broke his neck on the way down.
It was embarrassing. Pete wouldn’t do that. He was his own goddamn person and he didn’t need John Lennon to declare him fit for purpose.
Except, maybe he did because spider monkey Paul McCartney was still a Beatle, and Pete Best was not.
The pub only got noisier, and as he sucked down the last of his pint, he found himself eye to eye with John Lennon. Pete cast around and spotted the back of Paul’s head, slipping into the gents. No George, then, just Lennon-McCartney.
How long until George rocked up, or was he not invited? Was he next to get the sack?
Pete stood, no real plan. It wasn’t like he was gonna fight John Lennon. John was a fucking menace when he got going, violence baked into him somewhere along the way. Pete wasn’t interested in that.
‘Pete,’ John said by way of greeting as Pete sidled up to him, tapping his glass to the barman for a re-fill.
‘John.’
John tapped his fingers against the bar top. Didn’t say anything.
‘Can I at least know why?’ Pete asked, suspecting that John intended to bypass the entire conversation and get to the next bit. The bit where he was forgiven for any transgression. Bloody Lennon.
The tapping paused. ‘Why? I dunno, Pete. It’s… it weren’t personal.’
‘Course lad, that’s why Brian told me and not you?’
John shrugged, didn’t turn to face him. As if he could opt out of the un-comfy bit if he didn’t make eye contact. Or maybe he couldn’t see without Paul playing seeing-eye-dog for him. Hard to tell with him.
It’s just… they were mates, weren’t they? The Quarrymen had played at the Casbah’s first opening. John and Paul helped paint the bloody ceiling – that was trust. His mother, his family. And Pete had been there then, having a chat, sharing a cup of tea until the coffee machine had been installed, and then coffee. And when they’d desperately needed a drummer to get to Hamburg, he’d shown up for them. He’d been there for them, the first proper and permanent drummer they’d ever managed to wrangle. Didn’t that count for something? That when they were in dire straits, about to lose this oh-so-important-paying-bloody-gig, he was there. That he took time away from helping his mum at the club, lived with them in fucking squalor like an animal. He wasn’t used to that, you know. He lived in a nice big house, good people, comfortable. Hamburg was a tar pit of filth and horror, and the dirt and shit only piled up one on another until it was a teetering mountain too shameful to look at. He was with them. Not Ringo, swanning in with the Hurricanes, snatching up the good rooms.
‘Just think you at least owe me an explanation, right?’ Pete pushed as a second pint landed in front of him. ‘I’m a mate, aren’t I? Thought I was a fucking mate.’
This was the wrong thing to say, and John scoffed. ‘Christ Pete, didn’t think you’d be so cut up about it. We told you when you started it was only temporary and all that.’
Pete choked. ‘Temporary? I’ve been in the band two fucking years!’
John got that nasty sneer on his face. ‘Well, that’s hardly anything really. ‘Sides, you’re acting like a big girls’ blouse. That’s why.’
And then there was Paul, back from the loo, sidling up to John’s side. ‘C’mon now, we don’t need to fight about it an’ all. It’s all happened now, like.’
Pete knew his face must be splotchy and red as he looked Paul dead in the face. Tony Sheridan’s words came back to him, and Paul’s frustration at them.
‘You’re calling me a big girls’ blouse when you got Paulie here acting a queer. How long ‘til he’s out on his arse, then?’
And something Pete had always found fascinating was how someone could say just about anything to Paul, and his face wouldn’t change. It didn’t now, stayed blank. If anything, became blanker. This just made Pete angrier, couldn’t get the satisfaction of a rise from him.
John, though.
The twist of his features signposted every emotion as he felt them, chased away by the next one almost too fast to catalogue. Satisfaction, so comforting it was almost pleasure, ran up Pete’s spine as John’s muscles lurched in preparation for violence – and Pete realised, he did want violence suddenly. He hadn’t before, but now he did. Wanted something other than this impotent rage and hurt inside him. At least if they fought, at least if one of them broke a nose, there was a good fucking reason for Pete to be gone, physical, tangible proof that they weren’t in a band together and never should have been.
No such luck. All it took was Paul’s hand on John’s chest as restraint, and John backed down. They had a recording contract, now. It wouldn’t do to brawl in a pub with their ex-drummer.
‘See you ‘round, Pete,’ Paul said, instead.
He turned to the door. After a hard look at Pete, John did the same, though he gave the two-finger salute on his way out. Pete watched their backs, that useless, heavy feeling still sitting in his chest. Why couldn’t they at least have it out with him? Fucking Paul and his political peace keeping. Pete had watched him wind John up and let him go at people he didn’t like, used like a weapon, a rabid dog. Not now. Not when Pete really could have used it.
He hated them. Hadn’t known it before, but he hated every other member of the Beatles. George with his lilting, sarcastic voice, trailing behind the big boys, always clamouring. John, fucking John, who slammed so violently between extremes it was like being strapped to a raging bull. And Paul. Especially Paul. Moaning about Stu even though he and John bullied Stu into buying a bass in the first place, pretending they didn’t all know that. Incessant nagging about how to practice and when to practice and what fills to play, micromanaging of bookings he certainly couldn’t manage himself, stupid little power-plays with players much stronger than him.
And finally, this.
Right as they had a real, proper recording contract. Right as Pete had tasted the sweet surface of success, as they were starting to get real money coming in, as the hordes of petty frustrations started to finally, finally pay off. They dropped him like a stone in the Mersey.
‘Er…’ The bartender interrupted his thoughts with an awkward scratch of his chin. ‘You paying for these or wha’?’
Pete looked down. Two pints, sitting next to his. He cast around for them, as if he hadn’t just watched their backs slink out the pub door, but they were long gone now.
He swore, pulled out his wallet.